


Midmorning Sunshine and Burnt Eggs

by orphan_account



Series: Dreaming Wide Awake [6]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Future Fic, M/M, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-07-08 21:10:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19876144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The spatula clatters to the floor loudly, cracking against the white tile once then twice before settling, and Nate spins around to stare at Sid in shock.Except, that’s not Nate.That is definitely not Nate.





	Midmorning Sunshine and Burnt Eggs

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is a complete work of fiction, and I make no profit for it.

Sid gently eases the door open and steps inside, sliding his shoes off as he shuts it behind him. He can smell fried eggs and bacon and can hear some twangy country song playing in the kitchen. His brow furrows. Nate doesn’t like country. Nate hates country.

Frowning, he makes his way further into the house, following the unexpected music and the tell-tale scrape of a spatula on a skillet.

“Hey man,” he calls when he gets to the kitchen, “did one of the guys finally convince you to give Thomas Rhett a chance?”

The spatula clatters to the floor loudly, cracking against the white tile once then twice before settling, and Nate spins around to stare at Sid in shock.

Except, that’s not Nate.

That is definitely not Nate.

This guy has wild brown hair and flushed cheeks, sharp blue eyes and thin lips. A couple of bruises sit high on his chest, mottled red and purple, and Sid thinks they might be hickeys. If he’s not mistaken, this is Cale Makar, Colorado’s own rookie sensation, the kid Nate hasn’t shut up about since he joined the team last year.

Sid blinks at him, wide-eyed.

“Sidney—” Cale stammers, eyes darting around the room like he’s trying to find the quickest escape route. “Uh, Sid, sorry. You prefer Sid, don’t you?”

Sid nods slowly, still not quite processing the sight before him. Nate has had teammates over before, plenty of times, but usually they’re not cooking breakfast alone in the kitchen, listening to the music Nate swears came from the devil himself. Usually they’re not walking around half-naked, fresh bite marks scattered across their collarbone. Usually they’re not shifting nervously from foot to foot like a child that’s been caught with a hand in the cookie jar.

“It’s Cale, right?” he finally says, voice weaker than he’d like.

“Yeah.” Cale bends to collect the fallen spatula and sets it gingerly on the counter before crossing the room to shake Sid’s hand. “Nice to meet you.”

The bruises on his neck and chest stand out against the pale skin, and Sid swears he can see variations in the color, some spots appearing deeper and darker than others like someone sank their teeth in and held.

“You too,” he says, tearing his eyes away from a particularly dark mark that spans the meat of Cale’s left shoulder, bold and possessive. “Are you just visiting Nate for a while?”

Cale nods, “Yeah,” but his eyes are shifty, flitting away from Sid’s every few seconds to look down the hallway that leads to the master bedroom.

“Did you get in yesterday?” Sid asks when nothing else comes to mind, and he tries to keep his eyes above neck level.

“No, it’s been a couple days.”

Sid’s mouth turns down. Nate had texted him last night saying he was back in town. If Cale’s been here a couple days, he either got here before Nate (highly unlikely) or he got here with Nate (who decided not to tell Sid until yesterday). Sid’s eyes drift unconsciously back down to the bruises.

“What have you been up to?” he asks because things aren’t adding up. Or they are, but not in the way Sid had expected or anticipated. It’s like he’s been told to solve for x with half the equation missing.

“Just hanging out,” Cale shrugs, noncommittal. “Taking a break from everything.”

Sid nods, but he doesn’t know what else to say, doesn’t know how to talk to someone he doesn’t know in a house that’s not his when said person has the evidence of a very enjoyable night spread across his chest.

An awkward silence falls on them, heavy and uncomfortable.

Down the hall, a door snicks open, and muted footsteps echo in the quiet.

“Babe,” Nate calls, and Cale flushes immediately, “did you see where I put the toothpaste? I could’ve sworn I put it in the drawer in the bathroom, but it’s not there.” He pads into the kitchen, a towel wrapped tenuously around his hips and a toothbrush in hand. He too has a collection of hickeys spread across his torso.

This is the other half of the equation, Sid thinks hazily.

Nate’s mouth drops open when he catches sight of him, jaw going slack and eyes rounding until Sid can see the whites all around. “Sid,” Nate breathes, one hand going to clutch at his loose towel. “What—what are you doing here?”

Sid can’t help but notice the way he shifts closer to Cale, repositioning so they’re side by side. Behind the initial shock, he looks wary and defensive, and Sid doesn’t know how to take that.

“Thought I’d come say hi,” he replies as he does his best not to stare at the twin marks and comfortable lack of clothing between the two. “I saw your text when I woke up this morning and decided to see if you wanted to go out on the lake for a couple hours.”

Hand clenched around a fistful of his towel, Nate nods. “Yeah, I—we—could you give us a minute?” he asks, reaching out for Cale before aborting the movement. Whether it’s because of the toothbrush or Sid’s presence, he isn’t sure.

“Of course.”

Cale turns to pull the skillet off the stove, grimacing at the burned eggs, and Nate hovers beside him, beads of water dripping down his legs and onto the tile floor.

“Do you want something to drink?” Cale asks politely, reaching for one of the cabinets to pull down a glass. “We’ve got milk, juice, water, coffee. Beer, too, I guess.”

Sid doesn’t miss the way he navigates the kitchen easily, thoughtlessly opening cabinets, confident that he knows where to find things. He also doesn’t miss the way Cale says ‘we’ like he’s not a guest in Nate’s home but a host.

Sid kind of wants that beer.

“Water is good,” he says instead, and Cale quickly fills the glass before handing it over with a courteous smile.

“We’ll be right back,” he tells Sid and nudges at Nate, until he heads out of the kitchen and back down the hall. Sid watches them go, dumbfounded.

When the glass nearly slips from his numb fingers, he sets it on the counter and lays his palms flat on the cool marble, blinking furiously as he tries to wrap his mind around everything he’s seen, everything he’s heard.

The country music is still playing, some crooning tune that Sid knows would make Nate cringe and whine until someone changed it, and he shakes his head in disbelief.

Cale is not a teammate visiting for a week or two. He’s not a friend dropping by for a couple days of fishing on the lake and relaxing under the sun. He offers Sid a drink like Sid’s the guest, says ‘we’ like he says it every day, plays music Nate would normally hate but apparently tolerates for him, and lets Nate cover him in almost vicious bite marks like he’s laying a claim.

Overwhelmed, Sid pushes away from the counter and spins to look around the kitchen. There’s a different brand of protein powder sitting beside the one Nate always buys and a book tossed carelessly on the counter, something about architecture or design, something Nate wouldn’t likely read. A collection of photos and children’s drawings covers the fridge, hiding its monochrome surface under bright, vibrant colors.

Sid steps closer, curious. In one photo, Nate and Cale stand side by side, a little boy clinging to Nate’s back and another sitting on Cale’s shoulders; they’ve been caught mid-laugh, faces frozen in joy. In another, they’ve each got an arm around the other and half a puck held out as they beam at the camera.

Sid’s eyes catch on one photo in particular, and a burst of shock runs through him. Cale is the focal point, shot from the waist up and spread out on his back as he smiles softly at whoever is taking the picture. He has an arm flung above his head, crooked at the elbow, and his other hand rests on the thigh of the photographer, just barely in frame. His hair is a wreck, going every which way; his lips are a wet, vivid red; and his eyes are a hazy blue, comfortable and blissed out.

It feels too private for Sid to see, too intimate, but it’s on their fridge.

It’s on _their_ fridge, Sid realizes quite suddenly. It’s their fridge and their house and their shared life, and Sid wonders how he didn’t know this before, how he didn’t see it in every snap Nate sent and every smile that broke across his face when he talked about Cale.

Looking back, Sid feels like an idiot, a blind, oblivious idiot.

Nate had skipped out early on dinner when they played back in January, dropping Sid at his hotel with a hurried apology and a rushed explanation that somehow involved Cale. He had let Cale answer his phone when Sid had called to congratulate him on another playoff berth, spending half the call laughing at Cale’s muttered comments and asking Sid to repeat himself. He had left abruptly two weeks ago, practically running out the door to catch a last minute flight to Calgary, which had confused Sid at the time but now makes perfect sense.

They’re dating. They’re serious.

Sid has no idea how to feel about that.

More precisely, he has no idea how to feel about the fact that Nate never told him they were dating.

The bedroom door clicks open again, and Sid jumps, darting away from the fridge and snagging his glass before reclining against the counter in a less-than-natural pose.

“Hey,” Nate calls when he comes around the corner, thankfully clothed. None of the hickeys are visible above his shirt’s collar, and Sid is weirdly impressed.

“Hey.”

Nate shuffles from foot to foot. “Do you want to sit down?” he finally asks with a gesture toward the barstools, and Sid nods, sliding into the nearest seat and watching as Nate does the same.

“Is Cale not going to join us?”

“He will later. He said I should talk to you alone.” There’s a small frown on his face, pulling down his eyebrows and the corners of his mouth like he doesn’t quite understand or agree.

“We don’t have to talk here,” Sid tells him. “I don’t want him to be stuck in your room until we’ve finished.”

Shaking his head, Nate drums his fingers on the countertop. “Don’t worry about it. He’s about to hop in the shower.”

“Oh, okay.”

They sit in silence, Nate’s fingers tapping a steady rhythm as Sid tries to figure out where to begin.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I’m dating Cale.”

They speak almost simultaneously, words overlapping, and Sid gives him an incredulous look.

“Yes, I figured that out,” he says, and Nate flushes. “It was kind of hard not to with the whole—” he waves a hand through the air, encompassing everything and nothing.

“Right, yeah,” Nate mutters, bashful. “Sorry about that. We weren’t really expecting anyone this morning.” There’s that ‘we’ again.

“No, I should’ve texted.” He should have, but he’s never needed to before. They show up unannounced at each other’s houses all the time; there was no reason to expect anything different this time.

Nate shrugs, and Sid takes it for the embarrassed agreement it is.

“It’s not a big deal though,” he goes on. “I’ve seen much worse in the locker room. I just—I don’t get it. It’s pretty clear you guys have been together for a while, and I’m, I don’t know, surprised that you haven’t mentioned it before.”

“It never really came up,” Nate offers, but he clearly knows how untrue that is, if the bowed head and bitten lip are any indication.

“It could have. You could’ve brought it up.”

Nate does a funny up-down with his shoulders, just slightly out of sync and terribly uncomfortable. “I just didn’t want you to be disappointed,” he murmurs, eyes fixed on his fingers as they twist and turn in his lap.

Sid’s brows shoot up in surprise. “Disappointed?” he repeats. “About what? About you? About it being Cale?”

Nate’s head snaps up. “What? No. I don’t think I’d—well, that wouldn’t really—” He sighs. “I mean, no offense, but I probably wouldn’t care too much if you didn’t like him,” he admits. “That would suck, sure, but I wouldn’t stop dating him or anything. He’s great—amazing—and if you didn’t like him, I’d probably think there was something wrong with you.”

Sid thinks he should be surprised by the words, by the certainty behind them, the commitment. For some reason, he’s not.

“I don’t not like him,” Sid says, choosing his words carefully. “I just don’t know him besides what I’ve seen on the ice and what you’ve told me.” He picks his glass up, twirls it in his hands, and sets it back down without taking a drink. “So what makes you think I’d be disappointed?”

Letting out a slow breath, Nate slumps back in his chair. “You’re like an older brother to me,” he begins, “and your opinion’s important. You know, I’ve looked up to you since I was a kid. I went to Shattuck’s because you did and trained with Andy because you did. I followed in your footsteps because I wanted to be as good as you are in hockey, in life.

“I’ve done a lot of the things you did because I want to be where you’ve been. I want a Stanley Cup. I want three Stanley Cups. I want to be the one to bring it home and take it to the veterans’ hospital and let all the kids in the neighborhood touch it, so I’ve followed your example in a lot, but I can’t in this.”

Sid furrows his brow. “That’s okay,” he says slowly. “I’m not going to be disappointed that you’re dating a guy or anything. That would be ridiculous. And I don’t care that he’s a teammate.”

“No, I know,” Nate says, frustration tugging at his mouth. “I don’t mean that stuff. I mean relationships in general. You’ve been so quiet about your personal life, and you’ve put hockey first a lot. Not getting married, not having kids. I respect that, but I don’t think I can do that. I don’t want to do that.”

“Okay.”

“Cale and I are going to come out someday. I don’t know when; we haven’t really decided, but it’s going to happen. We’re going to come out, and we’re going to get married, and we’re going to start a family before we retire.”

Sid’s shock grows with every word because Nate doesn’t speak with the giddy naivety of young love, all blissful ignorance and uncontrolled emotion. He speaks with the quiet, unshakeable confidence of someone who knows what he wants, who has weighed the pros and cons and thought through all the possible outcomes. He speaks with an inevitability that Sid envies.

“I know hockey is supposed to be about hockey,” Nate continues. “I know how important it is, but I’ve also realized that there are more important things than hockey, and I’ve found something—someone—who is more important than hockey for me. And I want to be able to live my life with him without feeling like I need to hide or keep it a secret, and I want to show people that they can do the same.

“When I got into the NHL, all I wanted was to be Nathan MacKinnon, the hockey player, not Nathan MacKinnon, the kid from Sidney Crosby’s hometown. I hated how often people brought that up because I wanted them to see my hockey for what it was. I didn’t want them to focus on where I grew up or who my mentor was. I just wanted to be me, no extra titles, no added pressure.

“But I think I’d be okay being Nathan MacKinnon, the gay hockey player. Actually, I know I would be. Cale and I have talked about it more times than I can count, and we both want to come out at some point. We want to be an example, want to be proof that sexuality doesn’t matter. Hockey is for Everyone and You Can Play are great, but saying we support something isn’t enough. No one cares if a bunch of straight dudes say anyone can play; no one believes them. But if a couple gay guys say you can play and show that they can play and win the Cup and be some of the best in the game, that actually means something.

Nate heaves a sigh. “I know it won’t be easy, and I know there’ll probably be times when I wish people would ask me about ways I can improve my game instead of asking if I topped last night or Cale did.” Sid sputters, and Nate shoots him a wry grin. “But it’d be worth it. It’d be worth it to know that there are kids who see us and know that there’s a place for them. It’d be worth it to hear about people who didn’t give up on their dream because we gave them hope.

“Being out and getting married will take a lot of the focus off of hockey, and I know that’s not the way you do things, but it’s the way we want to do this. It’s the way we need to do this, and I hope you can be okay with that. I hope you get it.”

Finished, Nate settles back in his chair, falling silent as he scratches at the countertop, chipping away at a sticky spot.

Sid wants to tell him this is crazy. He’s barely known Cale for a year, and they’ve been together for less than that. Nate shouldn’t even be thinking about marriage, let alone already have a decision made. He shouldn’t be talking about starting a family when he’s not yet twenty-five and Cale is even younger. He shouldn’t be imagining his future with Cale as an integral, permanent fixture, but he is.

They are.

They’ve talked about coming out, getting married, having kids. They’ve discussed the future and made decisions, long-term decisions, about where they want to be in ten years, in twenty. They’ve decided together what is best for them, and Sid suddenly feels unexpectedly…immature or young in comparison.

“Clearly you’ve put a lot of thought into this,” he says, still reeling from all the information, “and that’s good. You and Cale have taken the time to figure out what’s best for you, and I support you in that.” He scrubs a hand through his hair. “It’s going to be hard,” he says bluntly, “and I honestly don’t know if I’d have the courage or the patience to do the same in your position, but it sounds like you’re ready for whatever will come.” He turns toward Nate and lays a hand on his shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. “And I’ll support you however I can. I could never be disappointed in you for choosing something so important to you.”

Nate’s lips quirk, and his shoulders visibly relax. “Good,” he says, “that’s good. Thanks, man.”

“No problem,” Sid shrugs. “But,” he goes on, eyeing Nate curiously, “I do want to know how you went from meeting this kid last April to deciding he’s the father of your future children.”

Snorting, Nate shakes his head and tells Sid about the crush he developed during playoffs and the summer he spent pining. (He says that’s what Tyson calls it, overly sentimental romantic that he is, and that the guys had all adopted the word when they finally told the team.)

At some point, Cale wanders back into the kitchen and slides into the empty chair beside Nate, thoughtlessly reaching out to tangle their fingers together. He tosses out a couple stories to supplement Nate’s and laughs when Nate tries to say he was the one who made the first move.

Eventually, they make breakfast, pitching the burnt eggs and throwing together a couple of half-decent omelets, and Sid watches them navigate the kitchen. They work around each other easily, nudging with shoulders or hips and passing ingredients back and forth before the other can even ask.

It’s…unsettling. Not in a bad way, just…it just is. They seem to have this awareness for where the other is at all times, where they’ll be, what they’ll need. It’s like chemistry on the ice but multiplied, magnified to a degree that leaves Sid speechless.

Over breakfast, they talk about their summers, Nate’s trip to Calgary, the upcoming season. Cale relaxes more with every minute that passes, laughing when Nate chirps Sid about his gray hairs and laying a casual arm over the back of Nate’s chair after he’s finished eating. Sid decides he likes him; he’s settled, mature, even-keeled. A good match for Nate.

“I should probably head back to my place,” Sid tells them when Nate mentions needing to hit the gym. “Thanks for breakfast though,” and it seems so natural when they both nod in acknowledgement. He doesn’t know when over the course of the conversation he started seeing them as them, rather than Nate with Cale, but he did. He does.

“We could go out on the lake this afternoon, if you want,” Nate suggests, but Sid shakes his head.

“I’ve got a family thing over at my grandma’s house. Tomorrow maybe?” They both nod. “I’ll make sure to text before I come by.”

Cale flushes and mumbles his thanks, while Nate seems to have gotten over the initial embarrassment and now grins smugly at Sid. “We’d appreciate that,” he says, and Cale shoves at him lightly. “We’re kind of sick of people walking in whenever they want.”

Cale’s flush deepens.

Sid winces, rising from his seat and reaching for his plate. “I don’t think I want to hear those stories.”

“You really don’t,” Cale assures him and takes the plate before Sid can grab it, waving away his complaints about needing to do something because they already made him breakfast.

Nate laughs. “Cale would never let a guest do the dishes. It’d be an insult to his Albertan upbringing.”

Cale rolls his eyes but doesn’t object, and Sid is struck with a strong wave of vertigo.

Nate’s talking about him.

He’s the guest. He’s the interloper.

This is Nate and Cale’s space. This is their home, with their coupley photos on the fridge and their ease in the kitchen, the matching bruises on their chests and the bedroom (and bed) Sid has no doubt they share.

This is going to change things, he thinks.

It already has.

“Thanks for coming, Sid,” Cale says warmly. “It was nice to finally meet you.”

“You, too,” Sid murmurs, still feeling like he’s been hit in the head with a two by four and then asked how many fingers someone is holding up.

Cale gathers the rest of the plates, and he and Nate have a silent conversation, all raised eyebrows and tilted heads that Sid thinks might be about him but he’s not actually sure. Then, Cale steps away from the table and heads for the kitchen, tossing a final goodbye over his shoulder.

Overwhelmed, Sid trails after Nate to the front door, staring at his feet as he tries to process everything.

“Thanks for coming, man,” Nate says in the entry, and Sid blinks at him.

He shouldn’t say that. They don’t say that.

“Yeah, it was good,” he agrees, subdued. “I’ll text you tomorrow, eh?”

“Sounds good.” Nate claps him on the shoulder and pulls the door open. “I promise I’ll have pants on.”

Sid’s lips quirk. “I’d appreciate that.”

“Thought you would.”

Sid tugs on his shoes quietly, noting the jumble of other pairs that now seems obviously too numerous for one person, and wonders how he could have missed all the signs, all the casual comments and over-friendly smiles that speak of a relationship beyond teammates, beyond close friends.

“Sid,” Nate says, hesitant, and Sid shakes himself from his reverie. When he looks up, Nate is watching him carefully, concern writ across his face. “Thank you,” Nate tells him. “For being okay with this, for accepting it.”

“Of course. I’m glad you’ve found someone so good for you, so good to you.”

A shy smile breaks over Nate’s face, soft and private. “Me too.”

With a single nod, Sid bids him goodbye and steps out the door and down the sidewalk. He offers Nate a final wave before sliding past the gate and making his way home, lost in thought.


End file.
